The Tenants of Baker Street
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: Shortly after a Study in Scarlet, Holmes and Watson go too far and are thrown out of their new lodgings by the long-suffering Mrs. Hudson.
1. Evicted

In answer to KCS's challenge to write a story where Holmes and Watson go too far and have to evade the wrath of Mrs. Hudson.

-rubs hands together gleefully-

Part 1

Many readers of my stories have marveled at the patience and tolerance shown by Mrs. Hudson towards Holmes and myself as her tenants.

The mutilation of her mantelpiece with a jackknife, the ever-present carpet of papers and articles which Holmes does not tolerate being tread upon, the continual flood of unsavory characters traipsing up and down the seventeen steps, all of these label Holmes and myself as some of the worst tenants imaginable.

I have been asked on a number of occasions why the good woman did not throw us out years ago.

There is no real answer to that question…because in truth…she did throw us out.

The evening of which I speak occurred early in our tenancy, shortly after the case I have titled; "A Study in Scarlet".

It was bound to happen…and I for one was totally unprepared when it did.

I was abed, though fully dressed and reading a yellow-back novel, for it was not long after the events of Afghanistan and my period of illness and I was still what Holmes liked to term a 'Lazy devil'.

He had commandeered the sitting room, and from the smell wafting in through my open door, was engaged in one of his experiments.

A distinctly odorous experiment.

I sighed, turned another page, comforted by the fact that it was none of my affair and Holmes would be the one on the end of Mrs. Hudson's lecture.

How very, very wrong I was.

I was jarred to full alert by a noise comparable to the charge given off by a canon and sat bolt upright, staring incredulously at the door…where a thin line of steam streamed in.

I swore, (another byproduct of my military experiences) and sprang up from the bed.

Holmes had gone too far this time…he had blown up the flat and no doubt himself as well.

I sprinted down the stairs and burst through the door, releasing a great cloud of noxious fumes. The fog was so thick that I could only just make out the shadowy shapes of our furniture.

"Holmes!" I coughed, holding my arm in front of my face.

One of the shadows groaned and sat slowly upright, clutching the armchair on his left side (the one I had begun to think of as mine) for support.

"That…did not go as I predicted it would." He said weakly, coughing and spluttering.

"Obviously." I relaxed a little, relieved that my flatmate was still in one relative piece."What in heaven's name were you doing?"

"Not what I thought I was…too much hydroxide." He stumbled to his feet and gasped suddenly in pain, clutching at his right arm.

I hurried forward, "You're hurt!"

"Its' nothing Doctor…a scratch…the test tube."

I gripped him by his left arm and pulled him out onto the landing. His face was rather pale and beneath his hand I could see a blossoming stain of red.

The explosion had shattered the glass instruments, and a piece of one had evidently embedded itself into the flesh just beyond his wrist…he was lucky that it had not slashed an artery.

"Nothing indeed." I growled at him, pulling the hankerchief from my pocket and using it to stem the flow of blood, being careful not to drive the shard in further. "That will have to come out. Stay here, I'll get my medical kit."

I went back up the stairs before he could object and found the bag in my room.

I jumped again as a loud shriek rent the air and in a moment I was flying down the stairs again.

Holmes was braced defensively against the railing on the stairs, looking as though he would very much like to cover his ears had they not been engaged in nursing his arm.

Mrs. Hudson had at last made her appearance and was quite as pale as Holmes as she stared at the terror that had been a sitting room only this morning. She turned to look Holmes and then up at me where I paused, frozen on the stairs.

Her pale face turned livid.

"Out." She whispered in a strained voice.

Holmes blinked. "Pardon?"

"Out! Get out now! I've had quite enough from both of you! This is the end! I want you out of here this instant!"

I felt my heart plummet at this statement, for I was still on a fixed income, and was not likely to find such accommodating rooms anytime soon.

But there was another more important matter at hand.

I cleared my throat. "Mrs. Hudson, now is not the time…Mr. Holmes has…"

"OUT!" she shrieked and it seemed as though a veritable storm of rage possessed her small person.

It may have been the fact that she had never raised her voice before, or that Holmes and I were young enough at the time, that the stern words of our elders still instilled a deep instinctive, fear from our childhoods.

Whatever it was we soon found ourselves fleeing down the staircase and out the front door into the street. All objections fled from our minds, including the fact that we had left behind all our possessions behind.

The door of 221b Baker Street slammed in our faces and we stood staring after it, quite at a loss for words at this violent and abrupt turn our lives had taken.

After a few moments I turned to Holmes a scathing accusation on my lips.

It died there, for in the short time that I had known Sherlock Holmes I had never seen so much emotion on his face.

It was not a lot of emotion, he never did show much, but I had come to understand him enough to know that this for him was relative to a display.

He looked somewhat lost…and shamed, his pale cheeks flushed a faint red. Perhaps he, as I had, had begun to view Baker Street as more of a home than just a rented flat.

But home or not, it had been snatched away quite abruptly and we were once again two homeless bachelors with hardly five pounds between us…and one of us was injured.

Holmes turned to me, his brows set in a scowl as though daring me to accuse him, still holding the blood-stained cloth to his arm.

I sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on…lets get out of here it's getting dark…and that arm needs tending."

He hesitated for a moment, surprised, then allowed me to lead him off down the street.


	2. Companion Study

Part 2

"Owww!"

"Hold still."

"It hurts!...I thought you were a doctor!"

"You know you are being a perfect child. One would think you'd never had stitches before."

"Of course I have, I simply object to my arm being unnecessarily punctured by your blasted nee –OW!"

For the dozenth time since I'd started the procedure, Sherlock Holmes reflexively tried to pull his arm from my grasp. I gripped his wrist, halting the movement and pulled the stitch neatly taut.

My rather unwilling patient glared at me.

"You did that on purpose."

"This would be a great deal easier if you would stop squirming. Heaven help me if I you ever truly get injured." (There have been numerous occasions since this first, when I have had to act as his physician. Even today the recollection of these words causes Holmes great amusement.)

The detective glared at me but held still and allowed me to continue with my work. We settled into a rather awkward silence listening to the sounds of the restaurant around us.

Choosing a location for the procedure had proven to be rather difficult. It was of course too dark to do it outside, neither of us belonged to any clubs, and I had no practice as of yet. So we had settled on a small café. Acquiring a small corner table, where no one would be able to see and object to my performing a minor surgery in such a public place.

Not that Holmes was making it any easier.

The shard of glass was long and had been deucedly difficult to take out, and when I attempted to clean the wound the detective had grimaced and hissed between his teeth in a rather put on manner. I showed no sympathy but had continued to the stitches.

At last I pulled the knot tight and unwound a length of bandage to cover the now closed wound. Holmes was looking at my work with distasteful look.

"What?" I asked rather irritated, for I believed I had done quite a neat job under the circumstances. "is the lambet stitch not to your liking?"

Holmes looked at me, then back to the stitchery. "There is something very disconcerting about having foreign objects lacing one's skin," he said in a somewhat weak voice.

He did look a little green.

I paused in the motion of taping up his arm to clap him on the shoulder.

"Don't worry old fellow…I'll take them out in a day or two."

Holmes swallowed and looked rather relieved when the stitches disappeared beneath the bandaging. I put my equipment away and sat back in my chair.

And with the only task at hand completed I realized rather belatedly that I hadn't the foggiest notion what I was to do next.

Neither did Holmes apparently for he sat twiddling his spoon on the rather dented wood of the table, his chin resting in his hand.

A great moment of silence passed then he cleared his throat and shot me a nervous look.

"I'm uh…I'm sorry Doctor for this mess…"

"Yes quite alright." I said quickly, as equally embarrassed as he.

"And uh…I am obliged to you for…" he motioned to his arm and I gave a hurried nod.

"No trouble old chap."

Another long silence, then clearing his throat, Holmes put down the spoon and reached into his pocket for his pipe.

He filled it pulled out a match to light it…then paused…realizing that my pipe was still back in the flat.

He sighed and stuck it back in his pocket.

I rubbed my eyes wearily and put my head in my hands.

I would have to find another flat, for my army pension would not allow me to live in a hotel as I had during my first few months. It would be a drain on my resources, I had only just begun to put aside for the practice I hoped to be able to buy.

I was alerted by Holmes clearing his throat again more pointedly and looked up to meet his rather sheepish gaze.

"I don't suppose you'd care to get a bite to old man?...My treat?"

My pride at once insisted I refuse the offer, but my stomach told me otherwise…what little I had in my pocket I would likely need in the next few days.

"Thank you."

Holmes smiled though the gesture did not reach his eyes and he motioned for the waiter.

I ordered one of the cheapest objects on the rather limited menu, not wanting to push my former flat-mate's hospitality. And was soon digging enthusiastically into a rather lukewarm piece of sheperd's pie.

Holmes fiddled with his spoon again, this time in a bowl of tepid stew, His brow furrowed in obvious thought. After a few bites of my own meal I paused.

"Not hungry?"

He looked up from his revelry his brows raised in a question.

"You're not hungry?"

He smiled thinly. "I confess no." he pushed the bowl away. "I find it difficult to induce myself to eat when there is a problem to be solved." he watched as I took another large bite of pie.

"You seem quite famished Doctor…are you not in the least worried about your prospects?"

I swallowed, and worked at spearing another slice of pie. "Of course I am. But when one is in the army one learns to eat and even sleep with an uneasy spirit. There isn't food or time to waste on such things as worrying. One develops appetite for normal activities even while under fire."

"How can you eat while under fire?"

"Oh often." I said, gesturing with my fork for emphasis. "There was this one time, when we were holed down on the borders of a village just outside Heart, been there for two days, wounded men under my care…I had to eat."

"Mmm." Holmes murmured with minimal interest, then went on.

"You speak of your experiences quite calmly Doctor. I take it that the war did not affect you in the manner it does most men."

I shook my head. "It affected me a great deal. It changed me, and my priorities…" I trailed off as my voice grew unexpectedly thick, certain unwanted memories flocked their way to the forefront of my mind.

"Changed you…or brought out hidden qualities that you possessed all along?" the detective said quietly.

I nodded and dug resolutely into my pie.

For a few moments there was more silence then I could not help but pose another question, mainly because I did not want to be alone with my thoughts.

"Is that why you asked me to come with you, In the Jefferson Hope case, because of my qualities?"

"Perhaps." Holmes said thoughtfully his hands steepled before him.

I sighed and went back to my meal, this Sherlock Holmes was a complete mystery. And if I knew him for nigh on fifty years I doubted that that would be enough to understand him.


	3. Stirring the Fire

It was fully dark by the time we left the restaurant, Holmes not having actually eaten anything. A sharp wind had picked up and was causing great discomfort to my leg and my shoulder. I hid my shivers, drawing my coat closer around me to ward off the chill.

We stood outside of the café, surveying the swiftly diminishing crowds around us and found ourselves forced to face that problem which had been niggling at the back of both our minds, and which both of us had been avoiding.

What now?

There were few options and the most likely of them was to find a hotel for the night and to return to Baker Street the next day to see if Mrs. Hudson would relent and give us back our belongings.

Not that I had much to recover, aside from my medical kit, which I had taken with me, I owned only some clothing and a selection of books.

Yes…a hotel was only the real thing for it now.

I sighed, not wishing to think what a drain such an action would have on my resources.

All this passed through my mind in the merest of moments and it was not long before Sherlock Holmes turned to me, sniffing as his nose ran in the crisp air.

"Well Doctor…I know of a tidy little place just up the road. Maxwell's…I am sure they could put us both up for the night."

I was very glad for the darkness for I blushed at the mention of the establishment. I knew the place and knew that even if I desired to spend that amount on a night's lodgings that I did not have the resources for it.

"Thank you Holmes, but I had another place in mind," I said.

The detective frowned good naturedly. "Nonsense Doctor, you are still a newcomer to London. You cannot possibly know of a better place than Maxwell's."

"No thank you," I repeated firmly. "But you go on Holmes."

The frown became earnest, "Whyever not? We can spend the night at Maxwell's and then return to Baker Street in the morning. I am sure I can Coddle Mrs. Hudson into returning not only our possessions, but also our rooms to us."

I swallowed, for there was obvious logic in his statement and to argue was seemingly silly, but the simple fact remained that I could not afford the lodgings he recommended.

"No…no I would really rather not Holmes." I said, suddenly feeling the weariness of my limbs and the ache of my still new wounds. I was tired and worried and wanted merely to hide in a quiet corner as I had been since my return from Afghanistan.

And of course the real reason for my denial could not be hidden from the cold reasoning machine that was Sherlock Holmes. Not behind my feeble protests.

He scrutinized me, as I had seen him scrutinize passersby in the street, and of course he came to the obvious conclusion for my refusal, missing entirely the emotions that were raging through me, and no doubt across my face.

"Its' no trouble my boy, I can lend you the money." he said, as though he were ending one of his chains of logic.

I felt my cheeks burn and knew that despite the darkness, one could not miss the tint of my face. Well intentioned or not, the detective's offer only drove home the sobriety of my situation and my own feeling of uselessness.

I was a broken down man, not only in spirit but also in prosperity. I had no future, no prospects and at that moment it was as though this knowledge had settled over my head like a great, dark cloud, and I wanted nothing to do with anyone.

Least of all the world's only consulting detective, flippant, meddlesome and arrogant as he was.

"No thank you." I repeated, "I think I will do very well on my own."

Holmes laughed slightly, he put a hand on my shoulder. "Doctor…"

I shook it off. "No." and there was an edge of iron in my voice now.

A dark cloud settled over the detective's brow and he visibly became rather cold, shrugging back into his own area of comfort, not that he had ever really ventured out of it, he had only been maintaining that façade of charm and goodwill he showed to everyone of his clients and the inspectors of Scotland Yard.

Well I was not one of his clients.

"At least let me…"

"I am quite capable of taking care of myself." I said, more forcefully than before.

Holmes' scowl darkened and he withdrew farther, going so far as to draw himself up, the picture of wounded dignity.

"All right then Doctor if you are so certain."

"I am." I snapped, quite tired of his wheedling and childish attitude.

He now directed the scowl at me rather than the emptying street.

"There is no need to become defensive Doctor…it was only an offer."

"I don't need you to offer me anything." I said.

"I rather thought you might be grateful for some help!"

"I don't need your charity…I am not one of your urchins from the street!" my voice was a sharp as his now, and I felt the anger dripping from every word. Not only against him but my whole situation. He had merely become the symbol of everything that had been frustrating me since my arrival in London.

"Those boys earn every penny I give them!" Sherlock Holmes retorted.

"Of certainly!" I said. "It is nothing to do with the fact that you feel a kinder gentler person after you pay them. Its not a substitute for the emotions and fulfillment you feel lacking in your own life!"

"You are hardly one to criticize one on a lack of fulfillment!" Holmes said quite harshly.

I reddened, genuinely now, meeting his steely, gray glare with one of my own.

Holmes was breathing heavily and was at the moment sharing far more emotion then I had ever seen him display before.

Finally he spoke in a voice of forced calm and formality.

"I think it best if we part here Doctor."

"Oh I quite agree!" I said somewhat nastily and turned on my heel marching off into the darkness.


	4. True Character

My flash of temper carried me quite a distance from Sherlock Holmes before I realized that I hadn't the least idea where I was going.

I came to a limping stop, my bad leg aching, breathing heavily. I really had not recovered enough to be out and about yet, not in this chill. I rubbed the offending limb, thinking longingly of the warm rooms of Baker Street and the port that still rested on the sideboard.

Provided Holmes' experiment had not destroyed that as well.

My temper licked like a hot flame in my chest at the thought. This had really all been his fault. I was not the one who engaged in explosive experiments and invited unsavory figures up to the rooms of our flat.

I was not the one who refused food for days on end and kept Mrs. Hudson afoot with my ridiculous requests.

Within a week of settling in the sitting room had become littered with Holmes' belongings, so deep that one could no longer make out the color of the carpet. He had fouled the air with his noxious fumes and his unbearable tobacco smoke, annoying not so much for its potency (for I smoked strong tobacco myself) but for its quantity, filling the atmosphere to capacity.

He had even defaced the mantle with a jackknife! A fact which we had managed to keep hidden from our landlady so far, but heaven's knows what her reaction would be when she discovered that Holmes had mutilated the polished piece of oak.

I sighed heavily in indignation glaring back the way I had come.

Could there be a worse flatmate?

Perhaps I should return to Mrs. Hudson and ask for her indulgence…She had had time to cool down, and she knew Holmes' eccentricity as well as I did…

But no. I cursed silently at the thought. The only reason I been able to take the rooms at all was because Holmes had offered to split them with me.

I would just have to find lodgings somewhere else. I would be alright. I had been through harder spots than this. I had faced guns and canons and debilitating heat…I could handle this.

It should have been a comforting thought but it was not, the fact was that it was a simpler matter to face the charge of an enemy than to face the loneliness and destitution that stood before me.

I shook myself. it would do no good to feel sorry for myself. I was…I had been, a British soldier and I would act like it. And the task before me now was to find suitable lodgings for the night.

I reached into my pocket for my wallet, exactly how much money did I have on hand?

I drew out the slim pocketbook and paused at the sight of it.

Perhaps it was just the dim light of the gaslamp, under which I stood…but it did not look right.

No there was genuinely something amiss…it did not feel right either.

I flipped it open and groaned when I saw the name inside.

I must have slipped it into my pocket out of habit after he had paid for the dinner, he had been deep in thought and had not noticed.

My first inclination was of course to return it, but our brief, fierce exchange was still hot on my mind. I had no desire to see him again so soon…perhaps I could return it to him in the morning after we had both had a chance to cool off.

But no…his funds were in this wallet and he could not possibly afford his beloved "Maxwell's" with the change in his pocket.

For a moment I stood in indecision, glaring down at the slim object lying open in my hands, embossed with S. Holmes.

Then I snapped it shut with a sigh and repocketed it.

I would not be responsible for him spending the night in this miserable weather, I wanted to owe him nothing. Best to have it over and done with.The sooner I returned it the sooner I would forget him.

I doggedly turned back the way I had come .

I stopped in my tracks, only halfway to Maxwell's and having seen no sign of Sherlock Holmes so far.

I could have sworn I had heard something.

There…I was not imagining things…I could dimly make out voices. And they did not sound hospitable.

The instincts I had developed during my afghan campaign settled automatically over me and I crouched into the shadows, peering in the direction of the voices and wishing I had my service revolver with me.

There were at least three of them and two sounded menacing…the third…

I felt my heart begin to race as I heard its familiar cold, keen tones.

Surely not…

But there was no denying it. It was the same voice which had been my most frequent companion for the past few weeks.

The one that had cut me to the quick not an hour ago.

My curiosity took over my subsequent rise of temper and I listened to the ensuing conversation…if It could be called that.

"Come on now gov…why would a gentleman such as yerself be on the streets at this hour?"

"Up to no good Archie that's wot I say."

"I have no quarrel with you my good man…and unless you wish to test me I suggest you move on."

"Move on? That's a good one…we've got a joker 'ere mates…now why do you think we'd be movin' on? This is our turf you're the one who's invadin' our privacy."

They had somehow forced Holmes away from the mainstreet into a rather dim alley between two large brick buildings…an ideal spot for what they were about to attempt.

But they would not find the task as easy as they believed. I had seen Holmes fight with his fists…he was no amateur.

"This is no more your street than mine." Holmes retorted sharply, "And I am not joking."

"Oh…businesslike eh? alright then gov…we'll be straight wiv yah…you give us yer wallet and we won't bovver yeh."

"That I'm afraid is impossible…even if I would give it to you I do not have it with me."

I swallowed, feeling the lump of Holmes' wallet in my own coat pocket.

"Oh sure, n'im the bleedin' duke of York. Gents like you always carry swag gov…make it easier on all of us and 'and it over."

"No."

I came further around the corner and got a good look at the shadowy group and their cornered victim. My pulse quickened slightly…there were more than two…five at least…and from the looks of things quite large.

Without any further warning one of the figures attempted to strike Holmes who blocked the blow with and delivered one of his own…trying his hand at a valiant defense.

There were too many of them and he was almost instantly overwhelmed, his arms held, the air whooshing out of his lungs with a gasp as he suffered a severe blow to the stomach.

For a brief moment, that will remain always in my memory as a mark of shame…I considered running, slipping away unnoticed to find a constable or other help and returning…this born of an instinct that I had developed only in these last few months.

Then the morals and values, that I hope are part of my underlying and stronger nature came to the front.

One did not run against uneven odds, and one did not abandon a comrade…no matter what your personal feelings on the subject.

I had not done so in Afghanistan and I would not do so here. Sensibility and the real world be hanged.

setting aside my bag I balled my fists and launched myself into the fray.


	5. Back to Back

My shoulder was more debilitating than I had first thought it would be and my left hook did considerably less damage then my right.

I did manage to pull two of the brutes off of Holmes and send one down with a blow to the jaw, but the other one was hardly affected by my left fist.

I staggered as someone landed a blow to my side and I turned, plowing my into his stomach, leaving my back exposed to my first opponent who then landed a vicious strike to my back.

I heard grunts and shouts coming from Holmes and the two men he had engaged with the moment he had been released.

A period of chaos ensued that could hardly be compared to a skilled and organized fight. I concentrated mostly on keeping my feet and keeping as many of the fellows busy as I could.

I found myself backing up in the face of one man's large meaty fist and grunted as my back connected with something thin and bony.

I jerked my head round to see the familiar face of Sherlock Holmes…just as startled as I was to find us back to back. Then our attentions were drawn again by the fight and we turned away from each other.

But for one reason or another we did not part and due to the chaos I was rather grateful to have him at my back, it was always easier to fight in such a manner.

For several moments we managed to stay that way, and I heard Holmes laugh exultantly when he knocked over one of his other opponents leaving us with just three. I felt mouth twitch in a grin, by heaven it was pleasant to be able to do something I understood, to see something that was so obviously right and do it. Surely there was no better feeling in the world.

And no matter what grudge I bore Sherlock Holmes it was momentarily forgotten in the sudden feeling of comradeship that swept over me at fighting beside him.

In this fight at least he was my ally, and that in itself was a comfort.

It was almost enough to make me forget that I was still on convalescence and recovering.

I was sharply reminded when my opponent's fist suddenly caught my wrist and twisted it.

I cried out and struck at his face but the pain was enough to hamper my blow, and the fellow sent another fist into my stomach sending ripples of agony through my unconditioned body.

I felt Holmes stiffen at my back but had no time to think on it as my attacker took advantage of my disorientation and pulled me away from the detective, holding me up against the brick wall of one of the buildings.

He pinned me there with one thick arm against my neck, and proceeded to pound out the rest of me with his free hand, his face set in a snarl.

I shouted and felt a sudden rush of terror as I struggled and found that I was helpless against his hold.

His fist connected again and again with my stomach and sides, I gasped and began to go limp, only furthering the choking hold on my throat as I began to slide down the wall.

At last his foot connected with the war wound in my left leg and I yelped, my vision going fuzzy and dark from the sudden pain and the lack of air.

Quite abruptly I felt the hold on my throat released and I was permitted to slide to the ground…or at least I thought it was the ground. Certainly my face met with the wet, gritty surface of the street and the smell of London trash and refuse assailed my nose.

I curled around the pain radiating from my stomach, my world spinning about me, dimly aware of the noises and grunts that dictated the struggle was still going on somewhere.

I was not aware of when the fight actually ended, but seemingly all at once there was silence.

A hand touched my shoulder and my alarm roused me to my senses. I tried to roll away, wrapping my arms about me groaning at the movement.

The fingers leapt away from me as though in surprise then came back, light and nervous, taking careful hold of my shoulder.

"Doctor?"

I groaned, trying regain my control, to concentrate on the voice that echoed distantly in my ear.

The fingers took a firmer, if cautious hold, and turned me onto my back.

I opened my eyes to make out a very blurry and dim figure above me.

Seeing the tall form looming over me triggered an almost instinctive fear and I tried to wriggle away, gasping and groaning.

"No…no no no, Doctor." The voice continued, uncertain and timid. "No…its alright."

I fell back, not because I was reassured but because I lacked the strength and the initiative to struggle, I moaned, closing my eyes again.

A second hand, the mate of the first, took hold of my other shoulder and braced me against the ground, as though to steady me.

"Its alright Doctor, I won't hurt you."

My head was clearing somewhat and I was able to make out the sound of a match as it was struck against the bricks.

I ventured to open my eyes again and took in the face above me.

It was familiar…and yet not.

Thin and pale, aquiline in its features, but it was sporting a severe black eye and a cut lip along with many other bruises.

But it was the expression that puzzled me the most.

For the first time since I had met him Sherlock Holmes did not appear to have his cold, enigmatic mask in place. His brows were drawn together, his eyes sharp not with deduction and observation but with what I could only guess to be concern. His mouth was open as though he would speak but could not find the words.

He briefly glanced over me and licked his dry lips then spoke in a voice that I had never heard him use before. One that shook with a slight tension…anger even.

"Good heavens my dear fellow what did they do to you?"

I groaned in response, too worn to contemplate this interesting new development.

The match wavered out a moment later and his new face was hidden from view. The sight had been enough to reassure me however and seeing it calmed me with a sense of safety and trust, I lay still and allowed his able hands to check me for broken bones.

He finished his examination and spoke again in a soft, steadying voice.

"Can you stand? This is a beastly place at any hour."

I nodded, then recalled that he might not be able to see the movement.

"Yes."

My throat was somewhat sore from the abuse and so my voice was hoarse.

A wiry arm slipped behind my shoulders and I was lifted almost gently to a sitting position.

My body twinged in protest and my head swam, but I could nothing that was a cause for any real distress. Despite the pain of the brief beating I had received I suspected the wounds were minor.

But oh I was weary. I had engaged in more exercise in the last hour than I had in any individual day since my invalidity. My leg and shoulder ached and the cold still bit into me. This time I could not repress a shiver.

Holmes must have felt it as he drew me to my feet and he surprised me even further by wrapping his arm more tightly about me…more than was needed for support.

I concentrated on walking and let him lead the way from the alley back onto the street.

He stopped at the edge of the walk and when I heard the sound of hooves on the cobbles it was accompanied by Holmes' bellow.

The cab stopped and Holmes opened the door, assisting me to ascend.

I opened my mouth to object but he shook his head and spoke in that puzzling voice again.

"Please do not argue with me. You are hurt."

I sighed and allowed him to help me inside before he gave the driver instructions and slipped in beside me.

I settled back, glad to rest for a moment…then my alarm flared as I remembered something.

"Wait…my medical kit!"

I began to sit up but Holmes put a restraining hand on my chest, pushing me back.

I watched in astonishment as he rose and shouted at the driver to stop…then he hoped out, hurried back to the alley and came back bearing my bag, which he set within my grip before settling again.

The cabbie started once more and held the comforting familiar weight of my kit, I shot a quick glance at Holmes and saw that, instead of sitting in his usual stupor of thought, his eyes were on me.

The dim light in the cab was extinguished by shadows for a moment before it was again lit by a gaslight and when it did Holmes was looking out at the street instead.

Silence stretched for several moments and I rested my head against the side of the cab, closing my eyes wearily.

"Where are we going?" I asked after a moment.

I was met with more silence…and then.

"Home."


	6. Friend and Colleague

So puzzled was I by this statement, and so weary from our excursion that I could not find the will to argue.

After a long, silent ride the cab pulled to a stop and Holmes alighted from the cab, paid our driver and helped me to get to my feet and step out.

I wobbled slightly at my legs took my weight again but he put that steadying arm around me, took my bag in his free hand and we walked toward whatever destination he had brought us to.

I felt my heart plummet as I took in the familiar door before us. I looked at him incredulously.

"Surely you cannot think that…"

Holmes said nothing only took firmer hold and led me up the steps, he knocked on the door then stood back.

To my surprise I heard a quick succession of light footsteps and the door was opened.

There stood Mrs. Hudson in her dressing gown, her hair rumpled.

Holmes quickly opened his mouth to address her, but was cut off by another shriek.

"Oh Doctor! Mr. Holmes!"

I flinched at the pitch of her voice and would have hastily backed away had not Holmes' arm been preventing me.

"Thank heaven's you're alright! I should never have let my temper run away with me like that, not that you can blame me Mr. Holmes. You're going to have to pay for those drapes! But after you left in the dark…and it being so cold out there…"

Neither Holmes nor myself could insert a word during this speech…indeed I think that both of us were too astonished to think of what to say had we been able.

"Oh but what happened to you?!" Mrs. Hudson went on in the same vein drawing us both inside and shutting the door after us.

Again Holmes opened his mouth to speak but was cut off.

"I can't imagine what I was thinking, making you go off at this time of night, I feared something like this would happen." She hurried us toward the steps.

"You go on up and I'll make you both a spot of tea."

She bustled off, leaving us at the foot of the steps, staring after her in shock.

For the second time that day Mrs. Hudson had treated us not as tenants but as two errant schoolboys who had somehow been placed under her care.

I exchanged a look with Holmes and was comforted by the fact that he seemed to be as puzzled as I.

He stared after her with an inquisitive frown.

"Why do you think…" I began.

He shook his head. "I can think of no logical explanation…she seems to have developed a sense of...affection, even responsibility where we are concerned."

Another short silence followed this statement. Then Holmes turned to lead me up the steps and I followed, and not another word was said about it.

The sitting room had not been as badly damaged by Holmes' experiment as I had first imagined (though the drapes were indeed beyond recovery along with the remnants of the chemistry set). I settled on the couch gratefully, hissing through my teeth.

Holmes went to the sideboard and filled two glasses with brandy from the decanter, he handed one of them to me and I downed it looking for a place to set the glass.

Holmes took it from me and set it aside with his own glass, then he reached into his pocket and handed me his hankerchief.

I took it rather puzzled and he motioned towards his nose.

Only then did I realize that my own was still bleeding, and I pressed the linen gingerly against it.

"Are you badly hurt?" he asked.

"I don't believe so," I admitted, I leaned forward and began to maneuver myself out of my jacket, pausing as the motion jarred my shoulder.

Holmes came forward at once and helped me off with it, slinging it over one of the armchairs then knelt beside me.

"He struck you in the stomach?"

I nodded and when Holmes motioned to undo my waistcoat and shirt I gave my assent.

The clothing parted to reveal several large bruises across my chest but mainly on my stomach, dark and angry looking, a terrible combination of black, blue and red, but there were no serious signs of internal bleeding.

Holmes carefully ran his hands over the ribs.

"Nothing broken." He rebuttoned everything and stood leaning against the mantle with his arms akimbo (I was pleased to see that the bandaging on his left arm was relatively undamaged).

There was a knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson entered with a teatray, which she set on the table.

"I've brought up some ice as well Doctor." she said, "Mr. Holmes' eye could use some treatment, and I noticed you were moving stiffly. Would you like me to send for a doctor?"

"No thank you Mrs. Hudson." I said.

She turned to Holmes.

"And I'll just put in the cost of the drapes with your share of the rent Mr. Holmes. Will that suit you?"

She fixed Holmes with a look that a headmaster might give a precocious pupil.

Holmes nodded. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson."

She sniffed and left the room.

I began to rise…intent on the tea but for perhaps the fifth time that night Holmes motioned me back and went to the table himself. He poured me a cup, handed it to me then settled In his chair, taking out his pipe and reaching into the Persian slipper for tobacco.

"That was a somewhat foolish thing to do."

I looked at him sharply and saw that I myself was under observation, the detective's gaze was puzzled, curious, as though he had never seen the like of me before. He struck a match and lit his pipe, his eyes never leaving me the whole time.

"Why did you do it?"

I frowned for it seemed to me that my actions did not need an explanation. "I took your pocketbook by mistake."

"Yes I realized after." Holmes said impatiently. "That is not what I meant."

I sighed, tired of both his gaze and his questions. "Would you have had me stand by and watch it happen?"

"Most men would have fetched a constable."

"That probably would have been a wiser course," I muttered shifting and wincing as my stomach twinged again.

Holmes furrowed his brows at me then settled back in his armchair, closing his eyes and drawing on his pipe.

I finished my tea, decided I could not manage any of the biscuits that Mrs. Hudson had brought up and instead stretched out on the couch, loathing the idea of mounting the stairs to my bedroom that night.

After a while I heard Holmes climb to his feet and the light plucking of violin strings as he took up the instrument.

I moaned inwardly, dreading the noise that was no doubt to follow.

Only on this occasion Sherlock Holmes began to play a strain that I recognized as one of the pieces I had requested of him before.

I meant to sit up and ask him about it but found that the cushion beneath my head had become unusually soft and deep.

The light, peaceful strains of the music reached my ears and I lost myself in it, not thinking or puzzling over the events of the day, just resting for I was weary in body and spirit.

And at last I thought of nothing at all.

I awoke to the smell of wonderful food, and the heat of a warm crackling fire.

I opened my eyes and sat up suddenly in quest for both.

A dull pain in my side reminded me of the fight I had engaged I the night before and I moaned, pausing in my actions before rising more slowly.

A blanket slid off me as I did and I blinked at it in puzzlement.

"How are you feeling old fellow?" asked a voice from across the room.

I turned to see Holmes, seated at the breakfast table, the paper held out before him.

"I would have woken you earlier but thought you could use the rest…there are some excellent sausages here if you are hungry."

I was, and the delectable smells gave me the will to rise and cross the room to the table where I fixed myself a plate. Holmes kept his eyes on the paper, And the only sound was the rustling of it as he turned the pages.

I knew that I should apologize for the argument of yesterday but I was loathe to bring it up again…and indeed I did not know quite where I stood with Holmes anymore.

Would he terminate our agreement or had nothing changed.

I was still trying to think of a solution to these questions and was just finishing my last sausage when there was a knock at the door and Holmes rose with an obvious air of excitement.

I sighed and set down my utensils, getting to my feet to make my way up to my bedroom.

The feeling of melancholy and isolation that always accompanied my retreat from the room settled on me now and I resigned myself to it making my way towards the door.

Holmes had just finished greeting our visitor and was waving the gentleman to a seat when I began to slip past.

I paused as a thin hand laid itself on my shoulder.

"And this, Mr. Netley, is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson, who provides me with invaluable assistance."

I turned to nod at the man, and looked to Holmes in confusion.

"No no Watson, don't leave," he reached behind him to my desk and tossed one of my notebooks at me.

I caught it, rubbing the cover absently with my finger, then raised my eyes too look at him again.

The detective smiled at me and it was an expression that lit up the whole of his face with a warmth I had never before seen on his countenance.

"I would be grateful if you would take notes for me."

"Pleasure." I mumbled dazedly and watched as Holmes crossed the room, his hands behind his back.

"I see you have just come up from Sussex Mr. Netley…trouble with your horses…pray tell me what led you to suspect foul play at their deterioration of health?"

The man sputtered and Holmes smirked in a self-satisfied way, removing the pipe from his mouth.

"See here Watson…" he beckoned absently and I approached.

"…You will notice the traces on Mr. Netley's right hand that where left there by a compound commonly used to treat livestock…and that the mud on his shoes is of a particular type…"

The End


End file.
